


Aches And Pains

by WhattheCatDraggedIn



Category: Batman - All Media Types, Nightwing (Comics), Red Hood and the Outlaws (Comics)
Genre: Alfred is a bro, Bruce Wayne is Batman, Jason is tired, Tim Needs Sleep, batfam, batfamily, dick is an acrobat, the boys are sore
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-19
Updated: 2018-11-19
Packaged: 2019-08-25 21:10:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 766
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16668352
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhattheCatDraggedIn/pseuds/WhattheCatDraggedIn
Summary: The bat boys are sore in the morning, as happens when you fight crime, luckily, Alfred's breakfast is the best there is.





	Aches And Pains

**Author's Note:**

> Jumping off buildings takes it's toll eventually. I am totally Dick, in this case.

Aches and Pains

Damian groaned as he woke up, stretching out on his bed and feeling his bruised ribs ache. Things had gotten messy the other night. He also had bruised knuckles from where he lost a glove, but that was pretty average. His legs burned when he stood, just the normal soreness. When his stomach growled, he prowled down to breakfast and plopped on the stool, not minding his bedhead. Pennyworth had seen him worse for wear.

Tim looked at the clock and realized, again, he hadn’t slept. He groaned and stretched, his arms and legs were sore, but that was nothing compared to the pain in his back from hunching over all night. His neck cracked and his wrists felt like they were full of lava. Everything hurt. Bruises littered his body, and his left pinkie finger was broken, but other than that, he wasn’t bad. The more he moved, the more he ached. He laid down on the floor and his back screamed in protest at the attempt to straighten it. A few cups of coffee and some ibuprofen would fix him right up, so he headed down to convince Alfred to get his fix. 

Jason’s spine was bruised. He found that, for once, his mattress wasn’t rock hard, and for some reason, he woke up more sore than when he was on his own cheap nightmare of a bed. He had stayed the night in the mansion, and his old room looked the same as he had left it. The smell of coffee wafted up the stairs. He had gotten in quite a fight last night, and his arms felt like lead from shooting so much. They were dead to the world, so he checked up on his legs. Yup. Also dead. His feet still hurt from the night before, he popped every bone in his body, wincing when his spine protested. He pulled on a shirt and stumbled down to breakfast, happy to have Alfred again.

Dicks entire body groaned with protest. Lactic acid made every movement feel like his muscles were being chewed on by tiny mice. He was too old to be flipping around so damn much. He slid his leg up into his splits, pushing his blankets around as he did so, and his hips thunked loudly, and stayed out of place. His back popped in two spots, and his shoulders clunked. He groaned and winced as a particularly large scar pulled taut. Feeling his muscles, they were as tight as a tightrope, and knotty as a strongman. Of course he had been dealing with these things for ages, but his destroyed shoulders, bad knees, awful hips, endlessly calloused hands (along with three new rips because why not) creaky ankles and whatever else only got worse as he got older. He could only imagine how Bruce felt. He commenced his morning stretches(a boys gotta stay limber) and delighted in the orgasmic feeling of his muscles being pulled past what a human should be able to do. Ahh, thats the spot. 

Bruce didn’t want to move. He felt like he’d been hit by a train. Everything hurt. He pulled his pillow over his head and grumbled   
“Bats are nocturnal, Alfred” as his blackout curtains were opened by his delightful butler.  
“The young masters are already up, sir, including master Jason, thereby making your point moot.”   
Of course. He started with a groan, pushing one arm underneath himself, then the other. With how many pushups he could do, this should be cake, but lifting his torso out of bed felt like lifting a bus. Easy enough for Superman, incredibly difficult without a crane for Batman. Eventually his creaking body ceded to what his brain asked of it and he plodded his way down the stairs to breakfast, refusing anyone anything without the strongest black coffee Alfred could make, which was to say darker than the night.

Alfred was always proud of the boys, as they one by one made their way down to breakfast. Even prouder still as he watched them light up as they ate. Tim's unhealty obsession with coffee wasn't ideal, but his carefully crafted meal, along with modifications for Damian, made them brighten in their own way. It was one of his favorite things to do, cook and watch the eyes of the masters light up as they tasted his careful conncoctions. He didn't know whatever on earth would drag the young ones out of bed, their early stiffness and endless pains, but this is what made Alfred awaken each morning, and he delighted in it.


End file.
